


večerní samoty

by sebastian_X



Series: Every Ghost Story Is A Love Story [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Can Town (Homestuck), Gen, I really don't know, Poetry, Postmodernism, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-13 00:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18458063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebastian_X/pseuds/sebastian_X
Summary: it's april thirteenth and all i can feel is winter





	večerní samoty

In his mind he wonders why the term desert- although is defined as any biome in which rain occurs sparsely, sporadically, and upon fall softly- is only used to describe the scorching variant of sand; and time. The footprints he makes in the coarse dirt devoid of any meadow to ease pain are rounded in the manner as if any renegade however more aimless they might be would recognize their shape and characteristic shallowness onto the cold, hailed, ground. Vast and empty, like her heart was impaled, like the irreversibility that happened to the vagabond. Here we are, stranded, and somehow it seems the same. The exile looked around, as if searching for something. He searches to disappear.  
  
Yet the holes in this ice-less plain he progresses upon are not mathematically in pursuit of any vague continuance by some existence owing to those that do not gather. Reminds him of something in the simulated city he once brushed across, by the bay. Not handmade, nor by nature, an origin so alien and desuitable that universes with even complete and utter predestination find gaping in unanticipated horror. The holes cross the inannexations of Prospit and those in Derse which dictated existence which wherever we project we change them and we are changed. To suppose for a moment the cache lost to him had some grist which origin is unknown yet poems in prose of violet laid as impossible monochromatic keys for flightless board. Lyrics to a note desolation used to play. At the gates of the coastal city there lies reckoners unto harbingers of some faceless engineer.  
  
By now, the lines and psalms of the plague journal has been lost to the dreamless dust called in various tongues time. Yet nothing really ends. So the words reinvent themselves, occurring again with no reference to the former yet exactly as they were prior. So when the wayward returns it is almost a shock to see the walls which writ it to be wrought with the welling wind that remembers and makes him remember. It brings him comfort, knowing that the reincarnate inhabitants of the cylinder autumnal labyrinth do not incinerate. Her overwhelming throes hang over him yet he feels no threat to the exalted land. No hearses or aerosol-patented weaponized Tab can change the inflammability of all of it. When he remembers reminiscent memories of the residues of a villein he never quite lost he sees the center of the revolution and you are here.

**Author's Note:**

> Understood? No, you didn't. Hop on my Discord for clues. I need friends.  
> https://discord.gg/bpMgMBd


End file.
